“Take me away, Jim! Take me away!” I cried.
I was glaring down the avenue, and his eyes followed mine. Amid the gloom of the oak trees something was coming towards us.
“Quiet, Roddy!” whispered Jim. “By heavens, come what may, my arms are going round it this time.”
We crouched as motionless as the trunks behind us. Heavy steps ploughed their way through the soft gravel, and a broad figure loomed upon us in the darkness.
Jim sprang upon it like a tiger.
“You’re not a spirit, anyway!” he cried.
The man gave a shout of surprise, and then a growl of rage.
“What the deuce!” he roared, and then, “I’ll break your neck if you don’t let go.”
The threat might not have loosened Jim’s grip, but the voice did.
“Why, uncle!” he cried.